


Be a Good Host

by Asynca



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Raptoramaker, interest only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 04:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14512821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asynca/pseuds/Asynca
Summary: Someone asked me to write Raptoramaker (Pharah/Widow), and the only way I could think of making that work without really rough hate sex (which I also wrote here) was to write something pre-Canon. Here's what I came up with - it's just very light pre-slash.





	Be a Good Host

It my mother who pressured me to go along. “It’ll be good for you,  _habibti_ ,” she told me, licking her thumb and threatening to try and clean something off my cheek with it, despite the fact I was  _twenty-four years old_. I managed to wrestle her arm away. She huffed at me. “Fine, suit yourself! Go along to a nice concert hall with a big glob of whatever-that-is on your face,” she said, waving her hand at me. “Just wear something nice, okay? That white shirt, that’s nice. Or, if you can’t wear that, at least a bag over your head so people don’t say, ‘There’s Ana’s girl,  _what on earth is she wearing_?’”

Seriously… “No one’s going to say that, mum, it’ll be dark. No one will be looking at me.”

“Everyone will be looking at you. Everyone’s always looking at you, you’re  _my_  girl. Just dress up, alright? Alright! That’s enough. I’ve had enough. Go, off you go. I need to look at the plans the commander gave us before I go to sleep. And make sure you get those big ugly boots off your feet, okay? You’re not at training!” She shooed me away and went upstairs.

I stood in the kitchen, listening to her foot on each step and her big yawn at the top.

Well.

I couldn’t just  _not_  go, could I? I mean, I could, I supposed. She wouldn’t know if I didn—I groaned, of course she’d know. She  _always_ knew. If I didn’t go, I’d never hear the end of it. I’d hardly heard the end of it anyway:  _Amélie this. Amélie that. Amélie’s in Egypt this season, can you believe it? That girl is doing so well. You could learn a thing or two from her habibti, why don’t you show her around while she’s here…?_

I didn’t have anything against Amélie, honestly. I hardly knew her. Gérard, her new husband and mum’s colleague from Overwatch, had been around to our place a few times over the years and seemed nice enough, and they’d invited us to the wedding, but I’d been deployed at the time.

I just felt like there was just no point, you know? I mean— _ballet_? Since when had I ever shown any interest in something like that?

I hadn’t, and that was the point. Maybe if I had, it would be ‘Fareeha this’ and ‘Fareeha that’ instead…

I sighed at length. Okay, well. I supposed I should get dressed.

I wore the white shirt mum liked and the heels she liked, too—I hated them, honestly—but compromised by wearing a suit over them both. Unfortunately, with the heels on I arrived at the concert hall to find myself towering over just about everyone, and so I went outside and pretended to make a phone call while I was waiting for the bell for us to take out seats.

There were so many couples here, all dressed up. Bare shoulders without the muscles I normally on base. Men with coifed beards and ladies with slender necks and perfect hair. Everyone was dressed in intricate, delicate clothes that all looked so fragile. It was a whole world away from the army base in Cairo. Even standing some distance from them, I felt like I stood out—well, I supposed technically I  _was_  standing out…

Half-groaning internally at my own joke, I followed the crowds of people inside and let the usher lead me to my seat, sitting for what I assumed would be the most boring two-and-a-half-hours of my life.

It was, for the first few minutes. The set was beautiful enough, and the lights were beautiful, too. I wasn’t really interested in that sort of thing, though. The male leads were also clearly very good dancers, I supposed—again, not interested—and it wasn’t until the music built in crescendo and the lights dimmed and the spotlight fell directly on someone that—

Amélie. In the centre of the spotlight, dressed in a red dress with black lace… her beautiful long hair not in a bun like I’d expected but down around her body—falling from her head down towards the floor as she extended one arm to the ceiling in a beautiful line. She was prettier in real life that she’d been in the photo mum gave me to recognise her so I could meet her afterwards, much prettier. Beautiful, in fact. Red lips, dark eyes. And—honestly—she lit up the stage.

It took me several seconds to realise the audience was clapping her appearance—that’s how famous she was, everyone was clapping that she was on stage. Glancing around self-consciously just in case people had noticed I wasn’t, I started clapping, too.

In character, she pretended not to notice us, but waited for the clapping to die down before she began to dance.

I didn’t know anything about ballet. I didn’t know what a good jump and a bad jump were, and if someone had asked me to describe what she was doing, I’m not sure I could. But she moved across the stage with the grace of flying bird, her hair coiling around her body and falling from her arms when she extended them. It was part of her as she danced—part of her dance, too. It was beautiful, otherworldly, and well—she was beautiful. Beautiful to me in more than just an aesthetic way, actually.

I hadn’t expected that: I generally liked athletic woman, and it had never occurred to me a ‘soft’ ballet dancer could be at all interesting to me.

I was wrong—there was nothing soft about her. She had muscles under that dress. Not like mine, but they were there all the same. She was strong, agile. Beautiful in way that was both powerful and gentle at once. She could throw her body so high up in the air with each jump that I could only imagine the sort of training that went into those moves—and with every move, she was fluid and graceful.

I admiredit, and found myself actually watching the performance—or, more precisely, watching  _her_ perform. It was almost a shame when it was over and I had to go around to the stage door to collect her.

I’ll admit it: I was disappointed to remember she had a husband, because I think I might have enjoyed ‘showing her around Cairo afterwards’ a great deal more if she hadn’t. I realised I was probably going to enjoy it a great deal more than I was expecting, anyway.


End file.
